


The One With Sasuke/Sakura Smut

by Tozette



Category: Naruto
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Femdom, PWP, Vile Smut, literally just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tozette/pseuds/Tozette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There's just something about a man so very controlled, so stoic and aloof, clutching at her sheets and gasping for breath.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With Sasuke/Sakura Smut

**Author's Note:**

> Hetero porn is often just like, 'And then he proved his masculinity by taking charge of her orgasms and it was A+' which is just... not at all what I'm even interested in reading. Het porn legit makes me forget I'm bi. And I guess... here is me, being the change I wanna see in the world?

There's just something about a man so very controlled, so stoic and aloof, clutching at her sheets and gasping for breath.

Sasuke is so... self-assured. He’s so arrogant. And he’s _so_ good to look at, smooth skin, competent hands and dark flashing eyes, fine features and strong shoulders and _hnngh._ Better still, he’s a whirlwind of beautiful ferocity and hard, lean strength. 

He makes her stupid, makes her irrational, makes things in her belly coil up and heat. 

When Sakura was younger, she hadn’t really understood what she’d wanted from him. Oh, romance. She’d understood wanting romance: pretty compliments, hand-holding, broad gestures of affection. 

Now she’s old enough to know better.

Their romance involves very few of those things, actually. 

Sakura can wreck him. She can make him sweat, make his chest heave. She can force gasps and yells from him with just her hands and her teeth. She doesn't even have to take her clothes off.

It's satisfying. It's _powerful_. 

It’s also _hers,_ and if anybody so much as looks at him funny she’ll punch them through a mountain range. It’s hers. He’s hers. She’s never felt herself so possessive as she’s been with him, and it only gets worse when he’s splayed out and shaking under her hands.

She likes it like that sometimes, likes to strip him down and have him prone and naked beneath her. She likes him shaking below her, likes to hold him down and give him just enough room to struggle. Sometimes he uses that room, thrashes and shoves. She can hold both his hands with one of hers, a product of her own overwhelming strength. She can shove her knee between his thighs, kick his legs apart. 

Sometimes he responds like he has now: flushes and goes still, supine, passive, eyes wide and pupils blown, and Sakura gets to listen to him groan helplessly while she slicks up her fingers and works him open, carefully, one at a time. 

He’d kicked up such a fuss the first time they’d tried fingering: too proud, too scared, too easily humiliated. When she’d coaxed him into it, laboriously, finally, his eyes had rolled back in his skull and he’d come within about two minutes. (He’d freaked out, after that, disappeared for a week in some frenzy of wounded masculinity; somehow after all that careful negotiating, it hadn’t really occurred to him that he’d _like it._ )

Now he’s flat on his back with his fingers twisting in her sheets, voice cracking when he moans. She lets her thumb drag at the rim of his hole, maybe too hard, and he exhales roughly, a whine in the back of his throat -- he swears breathlessly at her, rolls his hips. 

Sakura smiles. 

Sakura can see the effort with which his chest heaves. She rubs her fingers inside him, a twist, a prod, and he feels amazing -- tight, hot-slick from the lubricant, and so, _so_ soft -- but it's not quite the right angle for what she’s doing. She knows she could move him: could lift him with her own two hands, toss him around like so much dead weight. He'd probably even like it, he usually does, but it's best not to surprise him. He is, after all, very dangerous.

His penis is hard, full and heavy with blood, and when she runs her fingers along the underside, drags their callused tips up to the head, she can feel the rapid pulse beneath his flushed skin. The tip is leaking, well exposed from beneath his foreskin, and all that skin is incredibly soft, tender -- Sakura’s hands are already slick with lubricant, and she can’t help herself when she grips him in her free one and drags her hand up the length of him in long, leisurely strokes.

His response to her is swift, positive and gratifying: he breathes out, squirms closer, makes soft hot sounds with every increasingly rapid exhale. They're getting louder, sharper. He shifts restlessly, shoves his hips into her. His sweat-slick thigh rubs against her wrist. His skin is deceptively soft there, too, soft and pliant-feeling. But she knows what those thighs feel like between her legs, lean and steely with muscle. 

Sakura’s wrist is beginning to ache: rubbing and scissoring her fingers inside him means repetitive motions, and the angle’s sort of wrong. But he looks so hot for it, so turned on and blissed out, she doesn’t want to stop. He hooks a knee helpfully over her shoulder, and she should chide him -- _he’s_  not in charge here, he just needs to lay there and not think too hard. She doesn’t. She gives his penis a gentle squeeze and a long, firm pull that makes his eyes flutter shut, and then she lets go. She scrapes her nails down the outside of his thigh, leaves slick trails and takes a firm grip just above his knee. The muscle is thick, trembling-tense.

She doesn’t move him, she doesn’t have to. Her chakra control is absolute, perfect. It doesn’t take much, either, because nerves are delicate, finicky things. 

Sakura could kill him like this. It wouldn’t take a lot. But he’s let her slide her fingers slowly, carefully inside him, forcing him open over time, and now he doesn’t even flinch when her chakra rises. He lets her, trusting, unthinking, breathing hard -- 

A flicker, a tiny spark of medical chakra against the hot-velvet inside of him, and she can feel it when all the things inside him contract. She can see it when his muscles all tighten, the way his erection throbs against his clenched belly.

Sasuke rolls his head back and makes a shameless, helpless noise of such desperate pleasure that Sakura’s panties are absolutely soaked in about half a second. 

Sasuke looks good like this. He sounds good. She’s cold and hot all over, skin shivering, eyes wide, riveted; she does it again and his chest heaves with the sudden need to breathe. He makes incoherent sounds, forced out between gasps. His eyes are scrunched up closed, mouth wet and open, but when he blinks again she can see a brief flicker of red in his eyes. 

“Yes?” she murmurs, checking in, careful. Just because she could hurt him like this -- could kill him like this -- doesn’t mean she wants to. She won’t. 

He is precious. He is hers. 

And she is going to make him scream.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is low and throaty, slurred, heavy with something indefinable. He sounds so  _good_  like this. It makes her cunt clench; empty, aching, flushed full and swollen-feeling. Shit. _Shit_. 

He has a killer bedroom voice, and eyes to match: his pupils are huge, eyes unfocused. His mouth is wet from damp breaths, from saliva, red where she’s kissed him too hard.

She flexes her fingers inside him, grips his thigh on her shoulder to hold him still. “Steady,” she cautions, although who she’s warning isn’t clear.

Sakura breathes, concentrates. She can feel the ring of muscles inside him fluttering involuntarily, tightening and twitching around her fingers. She produces those tiny flickers of chakra and lets them sink into him spread new messages through his nervous system.

Sasuke moans like he’s auditioning for porn, and his muscles clench hard. She can feel the sudden contraction of muscle in his thigh on her shoulder. 

Sakura can feel his pulse flying beneath her fingers, hot and throbbing and frantic. She kisses his thigh. “Yes?”

“... _un_ ,” he gets out, staring blindly at her with dark, glassy eyes beneath a spill of inky hair.

Her own breath isn’t exactly steady. This time he bucks so hard that her fingers slip inside him, a jolt of chakra goes just slightly awry. Sasuke makes a wrecked sound and his spine bowes as he arches into the sensation, into her touch.

She doesn’t ask again, and he doesn’t really look like he’s fit to answer. Again, again, again; she works him higher, until his voice is hoarse and raw on every breath, soaring and shameless, unselfconscious: _Ah, ah -- Sa... oh sh- ah! _

She drags it out, so careful, until he’s gone, actually yelling -- until he’s _loud_ , making ragged, broken wails that the neighbours can definitely hear. Only then does she reach for his erection again. His heel slams into her shoulder blade as soon as she’s released his thigh from her grip, but the kick’s not hard enough to really hurt.

Sasuke jerks when she takes hold of his cock again, makes a noise that sounds like it hurts, and then it takes very little from her before he’s coming. It looks like a hell of an orgasm, too, all heaving breath and blind eyes and limbs trembling, muscles tense, strung out -- there’s a spatter of semen on his belly, a low and effortful sound that bursts from his raw throat.

Sakura’s pretty sure _she_  moans when he comes. 

It’s... it’s something to watch.

As soon as his limbs have begun to relax, Sakura is withdrawing her hand and delicately untangling his leg from her shoulder. She pulls her fingers out of him carefully, rubs her hands over his thighs. His pulse is slowing, returning swiftly to normal.  

“Nnngh,” he manages, and she looks up to see him sweaty and flushed and barely lucid. He’s at his most relaxed like this, heavy-eyed and loose-limbed. His voice is gravelly, and Sakura knows from experience that it’ll be hoarse for a day or two -- which is a day or two she’ll spend extremely distracted every time he speaks. 

He reaches for her, almost without thinking, “Let me --”

Yes. Sakura crawls onto the mattress, over him, skin hot and breath fast, and Sasuke’s strong hands are on her waist, sliding over her hips, smoothing down her thighs. 

“It won’t take much,” she promises. “Just let me --”

Her panties disappear somewhere over the side of her bed, and then she’s straddling one of those hard, lean-muscled thighs, listening to her own voice go high and breathy, she rocks her hips, feels the soaked-slick rub of her clitoris over his skin -- “Ah,” she manages, squeezing her eyes shut even as she reaches blindly for him. She blinks rapidly, rocking, rocking--

Sasuke sits up, shifts his thigh beneath her so she groans. He catches one of her hands in his left, lets her twine the fingers of her other into his hair. 

His mouth is hot on her neck, tongue and teeth and a heady shiver down her spine. His free hand cards through her pubic hair, and his fingers are thicker than hers, and as soon as they’re rubbing against her she can feel that frisson of delight, heat curling up in her belly. Oh. Oh _yes_. This, she tells him aloud, and gets one of those damnably smug smirks against her shoulder. 

“Just,” she gasps, closing her eyes, clinging to him, using her hand in his hair to shove his head closer -- teeth against her neck, lips pressed hard, hot breath, sweaty chest rubbing against her stiff nipples, fingers between her thighs.

She’s saying his name when she comes, seeing white behind her closed eyes, shuddering with delight and pleasure and something completely blissful. 

“Mm, good,” she sighs a second later. He scoffs gently into her neck. It’s not a mean or defensive sound, closer to a laugh on somebody else.

Sasuke will never be demonstrative the way another might be, but he makes gestures in his own way. Better ones, Sakura thinks sometimes, than hand-holding or pretty compliments.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah! That was a porn that happened. Drop me a comment and let me know what you liked about it. :)


End file.
